


Kinloch, Kirkwall, and Hawke.

by Aenorno



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Forgiveness, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Mage Rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-03-01 02:40:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13285209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aenorno/pseuds/Aenorno
Summary: It ached that Champion tasted as metallic and dead in her mouth as Knight-Captain tasted in his. Cullen thinks his redemption hinges on the woman he warred with for years.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if it was just me, but I felt like Cullen's arc and change in Inquisition left a little bit to be desired (if you disagree, that's fine! Just an opinion!). This is a more visibly remorseful Cullen interacting with Hawke after all these years, because it was Hawke that really saw him at his lowest for the longest in Kirkwall as Knight-Captain. This piece was written to start himself on a more visible path to healing, change, and redemption. :) there will be other chapters! This isn’t the only one!

Lillian Hawke was in Skyhold.

Cullen’s temple throbbed. The scar on his mouth- the last souvenir from her armored fist- ached already.

 _No_ , he’d later informed an amused Leliana, _I did not go outside to greet her_. He watched the Champion's return from afar- the safety of the battlements. He was right to do so too, judging by the Cassandra’s barely concealed snarl- visible even from his position.

Varric edged closer to the Inquisitor.

Cullen cracked a slight smile. He imagined this whole business was originally planned to be a quiet affair, out of sight and mind. Hawke had not been in the public eye since the war began. She was hardly an uncontroversial figure.

Hawke was also hardly one for quiet affairs.

She strode in as if she’d flung the great gates apart with her bare hands, her massive battleax balanced easily across her shoulders. Her Champion’s armor- as new as the day she'd won it from the high dragon- removed any doubts about her identity.

The hustle and bustle of the courtyard came to a standstill. Nobles, soldiers, and servants alike gawked as she strutted past them; nudging shoulders and exchanging whispers. _Is that the Champion?_

As if the question needed answering. If anyone hadn’t read _The Tale of the Champion_ , they were living under a rock.

An enviable position. Cullen’s grip tightened on his sword, the pangs of guilt twisting his gut. It would be easier to see a different Hawke. A crueler Hawke. Yet, even as his eyes ached from searching, he could see no difference. Her pale blonde hair was still neatly cropped, and even from his position on the battlements, he caught the glint of her flinty gaze in the midday sun. As sharp as ever. Even the battleax- Carver, she’d christened it- appeared as shiny and large as the day she’d fled Kirkwall.

The Champion ascended the steps like an angel of death come to greet the Inquisitor. She displaced Carver from her shoulders in a single fluid swing, gracing Lavellan with a wide grin. Shoulders back. Chin high. Even after Kirkwall.

Hawke swung about that ax far too easily and smiled far too widely for Cullen’s comfort. He tried and failed to imagine how on earth she’d stayed in hiding so long.

There was a time he stared at her with contempt. Wandering around Kirkwall with apostates, hiding her sister, arguing with him about the Chantry.

Cullen tore his gaze from Hawke, the hot flush of shame creeping up his neck.

It wasn’t as if he agreed with everything she’d done. But he’d forgotten his duty. A Templar protected mages, too. Cullen had done nothing of the sort during his tenure as Knight-Captain.

His career as a Templar was saturated with regrets, something he’d hoped to put behind him. Kirkwall and its conflicts were a large part of his existence for a time, but he tried his damnedest not to think of those years after Kinloch. He was finished with the Order now, in the process of cutting off their hold on him. He thought that the Inquisition would be his penance.

Thinking one thing, yet doing another. Cullen had grown quite used to it these past ten years.

Thinking what he did about Surana, yet turning away. Demanding the execution of her peers.

Thinking Meredith was slipping, yet executing her will.

Thinking he could outrun lyrium, yet feeling the ache for it every day.

As if on cruel cue, Hawke laughed- a jovial, lively sound that carried through the courtyard. Varric clapped his hand on her back, doubling over in unison with her. Cullen remembered a laugh like that, from another person. Another time. Bethany shared her sister’s laugh.

She shared it with all the other mages in the Circle too, even as the ropes that bound the Circle tightened. A noose he had helped tie.

An iron fist squeezed Cullen’s chest.

It struck him that he’d never gotten the chance to apologize.

His hands clenched the cold stone of the battlements to keep himself grounded. His efforts were futile, the chill only serving to stiffen his fingers. His mind drifted. He thought of Meredith’s punishments, prejudice, blood magic, desperation, and Lillian Hawke.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen muttered, suppressing a shudder. A brief rush of relief coursed through him as he watched the Champion’s form slowly diminish as she, the Inquisitor, and Varric left for a more quiet setting. _Excellent idea_ , he mused. He would do the same.

Cullen spun on his heel and walked smartly back to his office, for once happy with the mountain of reports cluttering his desktop.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> H as in Hawke and H as in headache.

“Construction is slow, but coming,” Jim informed Cullen, looking on as the Commander scribbled his approval on a report. Cullen's eyes throbbed- the loops and curls of Scout Harding’s writing were not kind in the dim candlelight. Tonight he did not mind, though. Tonight, any distractions were welcome. His chest clenched at the certainty of the impending night terrors and the absence of lyrium to ease their passing.

“Lady Nightingale wishes Scout Harding and her squad to be sent out to find easy routes for her agents through the mountains,” Jim continued, oblivious, shuffling his paperwork to fill the silence of the office.

Cullen’s pen scratched against the paper.

“Understood. Please inform the spymaster that Harding will be deployed first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Yes ser.” Jim’s boots shifted, as if he made to leave, but stopped.

“Ah, yes!” he chuckled nervously, adjusting to face the desk again. “That’s right. I apologize. Commander, there was one more matter that needed your attention.”

Cullen continued his writing, not looking at the scout. “Well?”

"Inquisitor Lavellan has called a War Council meeting.” At Cullen’s arched brow, Jim nervously wrung his hands. “I’m so sorry I didn’t mention it first thing ser, there’s just so much to do and the request was at the bottom-“

Cullen’s temple pounded and his muscles ached. He set down his pen.

“I’ll report to the War Room immediately," he cut in. "Dismissed."

Jim all but sprinted to the door, but then Cullen had an awful thought. _Shit._

"Wait!" The scout froze. "Did they say what the meeting is being called for?”

“I-I believe that it concerns Serah Hawke’s information, Commander. She reported to the Inquisitor earlier. Something about the Wardens? Yes. Yes, that was it.”

He swallowed. “Will the Champion be there?”

Jim remained oblivious as ever. “Yes, ser. Serah Hawke wished to relay her information directly to the Inquisition’s leadership. Inquisitor Lavellan agreed.”

Cullen closed his eyes. _Maker's Breath._  “Dismissed.”

“Ser.” Once the sound of Jim’s armored boots against the stone faded into the ambiance of the night, Cullen steeled his nerves and scolded himself.

“Apologies aren’t hard,” he berated himself aloud, “Maker’s breath. It’s just Hawke.”

Just Hawke. Just the woman he’d warred with for the better part of a decade.

A knock at the door made him flinch. He scowled at himself, turning around to throw on his cloak. “Yes,” he snapped, “I was just on my way to the Council, Jim!”

The door opened anyways, heedless of his comment. “Shit, I wouldn’t want to be Jim.”

It took Cullen all of five seconds to register the voice. He whirled around less gracefully than he’d like to admit, greeted by the grinning Champion. She’d changed out of the armor into simple leather breeches and a white shirt. Not that it mattered.

“Cullen Rutherford!” she exclaimed, holding her arms out as if greeting an old friend. “If it isn’t my favorite Templar!”

Her friendliness was more disarming than any hostility might’ve been. Cullen furiously rubbed the back of his neck, wracking his exhausted, lyrium-deprived brain for a coherent response. “Ah, yes. Hawke. It’s- yes. Good to see you too,” he managed, trying his best to return her smile.

“Are you alright?” Her dark eyes narrowed. “You look like you just swallowed something unpleasant.”

“What?” he asked stupidly, feeling rather as if she’d punched him again.

“Your face.”

He tried vainly to school it into an innocently confused expression.

“I’ve no idea what you mean.”

Her dark gaze drifted to the scar on his lip, then back up to his eyes. He held the stare.

“No?”

“No.”

“Would it help if I assured you that I’m hiding no apostates in my pockets?”

Cullen clenched his jaw, squashing the welling of guilt in his gut. Then. Then would’ve been perfect.

The apology sat heavily on his tongue. _I’m sorry for how I behaved at Kirkwall. It was beneath me. Unworthy of me. I know that I can never make up for what happened._

_I’m sorry for not seeing through Meredith sooner._

_I’m sorry about Bethany, Hawke._

He stared blankly at Hawke’s brown eyes, looking for some sort of sign or signal. Something that allowed him to dredge up those unhealed wounds. He found none.

“The cool, calm, collected Commander of the Inquisition,” Hawke mused, her tone a touch sharper.

And just like that, they could’ve been back in the Gallows- Hawke letting all sorts of creative quips slip to him as she walked by his post. Cullen opened his mouth, but the moment had passed. It was too late. Hawke was already prowling around the office, studying every bit of its contents. She tipped her head back, noticed the hole in his ceiling, and laughed.

“So the rumors are true,” she chuckled, her severity evaporated like morning dew. “You have a hole in your roof.”

Rumors? Who would spread rumors about his fucking roof?

_Varric._

Cullen rubbed his temple, fervently wishing he were anywhere else but here.

“Do you _sleep_ here?”

“The cold invigorates me."

“The ultimate invigorator. Hypothermia.”

”I can think of worse stimulants," he muttered.

Hawke chose to ignore him, giving her chin an exaggerated tap while she eyed the hole. “Maker’s breath,” she mumbled towards the roof, the corners of her mouth twitching.

Was she..?

“Maker’s breath, Hawke!” Cullen exclaimed, ignoring her smirk at his outburst. “I’m late for a War Council meeting. I don’t have time for this.”

She arched a brow. “Is that so? I suppose we’re in the same boat then, Rutherford.” She opened the door leading to the battlements, gesturing towards the winter night with a sweeping flourish of her arm. “Shall we? You can get more of that invigorating deep freeze.”

Cullen delibrately didn’t look at her as he passed by.

He walked in silence, with Hawke leading the way to the War Room and talking the whole way there. He barely listened to her quips, lost in his own thoughts and barely able to observe the steps he was taking.

Maker help him. How could he handle working with her when he could scarcely handle a conversation with her?

He pictured the apology in his mind’s eye. Would she accept it? Hawke was fierce, formidable, and unforgivable. It was a wonder that she was speaking to him now as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't been complicit in the fall of her city. He wasn't fool enough to think that she'd forgotten that, despite her cheery manner.

The thought had crossed his mind that he didn’t have to. Nothing was forcing him to. They’d only be working together for a short time, a few months at best. After that, who knew if he would see her again.

He couldn’t do nothing. Not again.

This time. This time, he’d do something. He had to.

A thud into a warm body jolted him from his thoughts. She’d stopped just short of the door.

“Do you think I’m an idiot, Cullen?”

He blinked, momentarily thrown by the use of his name.

She cocked her hip, a single eyebrow creeping towards her hairline.

An idiot? Hawke had been many things. Fereldan refugee. Mercenary. Noblewoman. Champion of Kirkwall. A pain in his ass. Upstart to some. Hero to others.

“You are many things, Hawke,” he began slowly, the answer already on his lips. “But not an idiot.”

“What am I to you then?” she murmured.

Cullen stared at her, grasping for the right answer. “You're Hawke," he whispered. Her eyes flashed with something unrecognizable. He cleared his throat, trying again. "The Champion.”

“The Champion,” Hawke repeated. She studied him. “Well, _the Champion_ certainly didn’t expect to find you leading the forces allied with the dread rebel mages.”

A wry smile curled Cullen’s lips. “The Knight-Captain certainly didn’t expect you to come back.”

The look on her face was completely foreign to him. Cullen had seen every emotion on Hawke’s face- fury, happiness, sorrow, confusion, amusement.

She chuckled darkly and turned to the door, the torchlight throwing her face into sharp relief. Cullen’s eyes widened. The dim candlelight of his office and his distant observations hadn't given him the chance to see her more closely. Dark crescents curved beneath her eyes. Angles and bone had replaced the roundness and cheek of her younger days. Faint lines had just begun to form at the spot where her eyebrows furrowed. A sharp, vengeful beauty that struck him as hard as her fist all those years ago.

“I always come back. I have to. I can never do nothing,” she said flatly, as if providing him with a simple piece of empirical information. “It’s who I am. The Champion.”

Shouted by so many with joy, relief, admiration- now weighed down with sorrow from the very lips of the title's bearer.

He ached that Champion tasted as metallic and dead in her mouth as Knight-Captain tasted in his.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen recalls that last night in Kirkwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If violence is upsetting or triggering for you, please don't read this chapter.

Her proud armor was spattered with the guts and blood of Templars and abominations alike, teeth bared in a feral snarl as she cut down his fellows. Then, Meredith herself, Hawke’s great ax cleaving into her chest like a knife into butter. The knight-commander screamed a ghastly sound that chilled Cullen’s blood, and before everyone’s eyes she’d crystallized into red mineral- lyrium, he’d later been told. It had driven her mad.

Hawke’s madness was something else entirely, her dark eyes wild and her face streaked with blood, tears, and ash. She laughed as Meredith screeched in agony, the red lyrium claiming her flesh and bone. Cullen had heard Hawke laugh before- a loud, lively declaration of her arrival anywhere. It was a necessary prelude to Lillian Hawke’s presence; a laugh accompanied by some sharp jab.

This laugh was nothing like that laugh. The sound that tore itself from Hawke’s lips was a cold, high sound that could scarcely be considered a laugh. Indeed, the only thing that clued Cullen in on the true nature of the noise was the cruel smirk twisting Hawke’s mouth. It was so foreign, so wrong on her face that Cullen thought it might be a Rage demon or some ruthless spirit of vengeance taken possession of Hawke’s features.

Cullen’s hand shook on his sword, his knuckles turning white in an effort not to let it clatter to the ground. Her companions, people she’d known for the better part of a decade, looked on in a mix of shock and horror as Meredith slowly died and Hawke laughed.

The silence that followed was almost worse than the screams. Just as the lyrium silenced Meredith, Meredith’s demise silenced Hawke. It was abrupt, and just like that, Hawke’s lips were so tightly pressed together that some part of Cullen wondered if she’d ever speak again. Her arms hung loose and limp at her side, the battleax she wielded so proudly now a sad relic dropped on the stones of the Gallows.

Varric walked up to the Champion’s side, placing a firm hand on her arm. Nothing more, nothing less. They stood there together, Hawke gazing emptily at Meredith’s twisted, red form.

The apostate Anders, forgotten in the chaos, gazed at her with such sorrow that Cullen’s gut twisted with revulsion. The mage made to reach for her, but the tattooed elf shot him such a venomous gaze that he flinched.

“Lily,” the apostate rasped, eyes desperately roving over her face for some sign of Hawke.

“Go.”

The word wasn’t charged with fury or weighed down with sorrow. Just empty. Lifeless. The apostate swallowed, took a step back.

The Champion turned to face the mage. Her gaze could have cut diamonds, and the low snarl that followed it was almost feral.

“Get out of my sight.”

Cullen steeled himself, turning away from the scene. The Templars needed him now. Kirkwall needed him now.

“Work with the guard and Guard-Captain Aveline. Ensure that no more blood mages or abominations stalk the street. Instruct the citizens to stay in their homes. If there are any surviving mages, bring them here. After that…” Cullen paused, allowing himself to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Return here. We need to see about clearing the bodies. Giving the proper rites.” Each word fell heavy on the Gallows stone. His men were as silent as death but moved to comply.

The next few hours passed mechanically. Only Cullen’s movement- doing something helped the seconds inch by, helped the metallic scent of blood recede from his nostrils. All the while, the dead piled up on wagons- a mangled collection of mages, Templars, and citizens. Hawke never strayed from Meredith’s body, her gaze returned to the frozen expression of horror on the Knight-Commander’s face.

Cullen looked about for a Mother to perform the rites.

Then, he realized. Right.

He would have to do it himself.

“A pyre,” he barked to the nearest knight. “Get three others and build a pyre!”

Hawke’s head jerked up. She muttered something under her breath, then shot up from her position and across to the wagons.

As she drew closer, he heard.

“Bethany. Bethany. Beth. Beth. Beth.”

Cullen’s heart wrenched. Hawke pushed the bodies around, studying each and every face, even the ones bloodied and beaten beyond all recognition. The more bodies she went through, the more fervent her chant became.

“Beth. Beth. Beth. Beth.”

Quietly, he moved to the next wagon, looking for any sign of the younger Hawke.

Cullen wracked his memory, his bloodied hands shaking as he examined the bodies. He hadn’t seen her body in the streets at all as he’d fought his way to the Gallows. Bethany Hawke had survived the madness.

Hadn’t she?

Then, a shock of black hair. Cullen’s hand froze. Glossy hazel eyes staring out into nothing. The body already stiff with death.

“Champion,” he distantly heard himself say.

She was at his side in an instant. Eyes previously devoid of all emotion now swam with tears and hands previously devoid of life now clutched at Bethany’s hair, stroking it with a tenderness Cullen never imagined possible.

“Beth,” she whimpered, the barely audible sound caught in a swollen throat. She cradled her sister, hugging her close to her chest.

“Beth. Beth. Please.”

“Hawke. Lillian, I…” Cullen trailed off, his intended words sounding pathetic even to his ears. Even her companions kept a fair distance, although they looked like they wanted nothing more than to go to her.

The Champion gently lifted her off the cart, placing her delicately on the ground. Hawke kissed the crown of her sister’s head, tears running down into Bethany’s black hair. Slowly, she rose from Bethany’s side, tossing her battleax aside.

There was no warning. No prelude. A sickening crack sliced clean through Cullen’s lip. Hawke’s fist slammed into his mouth like a battering ram, the sight of her retreating hand replaced by brown eyes in a bloody face.

Hot blood ran freely in thick rivulets from his split lip, yet Cullen could only stare at his attacker.

“You fool,” she hissed, “You knew. You could’ve acted sooner. Could’ve saved all this death!” She ended on a scream, gesturing wildly to the growing amount of death around them.

“Hawke-“ Varric began, but Hawke paid no heed to her companion. She stalked towards Cullen until there was scarce an inch between them. He could smell the blood on her, almost tasting the metal on her breath.

“You’d rather your ridiculous hatred of mages take precedence than the insanity of Kirkwall’s leader and the danger of its citizens,” she snarled, “And look at us now, Knight-Captain. Does this satisfy you?! Does my sister’s _death_ satisfy you?!”

Her chest heaved. The air was thick with death, blood, and tension. everyone in the Gallows having turned to watch their exchange.

Cullen’s hands shook.

“You’re free to go, Champion," he rasped. "You and all your companions.”

Fire in Hawke’s eyes was the last thing Cullen saw before he jolted awake in his bed, covered in cold sweat and shaking.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could only avoid her so long.

Cullen saw the effects of frostbite up close. Once.

Aaron. Wasn’t that his name? Cullen had barely known the boy, he was a recruit fresh out of training. Not too different from himself. A young, hopeful Templar in the wrong place at the wrong time.

One of the blood mages in the Calenhad Tower had slowly frozen each of his fingers and toes, then laughed as they fell off. Cullen hadn’t been able to move or even cry out to his brother in arms to offer him some final words of comfort.

His corpse had been ice to the touch, and his eyes had been stretched wide with terror- his last sight having been Cullen’s horrified face and the blood mage’s staff. 

The cold was a terrible way to go.

Skyhold’s winter bit as bitterly as magical ice did, but Cullen needed its punishing touch. The feeling in his fingers and nose was lost to the wind, and his muscles ached from being bunched against the chill. 

Terrible, but it felt real. It anchored him to the present.

As soon as the thought came to him, Cullen scoffed, the white of his breath chilling his face. As if he was any better now than he was all those years ago watching Aaron wither away.

He bowed his head, breaking his stare into the endless mountains beyond the fortress. He couldn’t go back to his office. The lyrium box would be lying in wait for him.

So his feet carried him to a familiar spot. No one but the servants was up and around at this hour, and they never questioned his comings and goings. The little Chantry seemed to glow amongst the darkened garden.

At first, he thought he was still in the throes of the night terror.

Maker’s breath. What a fantastic irony it would be. His only source of refuge, now inhabited by the creature that dogged his conscience. 

Of course, she wasn’t kneeling. She glared at the altar as if through sheer will, Andraste would materialize and speak to her. She hadn’t changed out of her clothes from earlier, he noticed and lacked any sort of shield against the cold.

The muscles flexed beneath her thin shirt, pulled as taut as bowstrings, but it still couldn’t hide the shivers that ran through her. Like the Chantry, she emanated with a light, but her’s was harsh and unforgiving. Her pale blonde hair cut like a knife in the candlelight.

He stood, rooted to the spot.

“The crunching of your boots makes it hard to concentrate.”

Cullen clenched his jaw. “Apologies, Hawke.”

She turned her head, a dark smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Hawke? Not Champion? Not even so much as a Serah?” She planted her finger square in his chest, trapping him with a bloodshot gaze. “You’ll be reciting Canticles for that slight.”

His stomach dropped. Oh, but this was too dangerous. There’d be no talking to her like this. Most reasonable people would leave with some sort of hasty apology and half-hearted goodnight on their lips.

Cullen steeled himself, sending a silent prayer to the Maker. Not tonight.

“I didn’t know you were so devout.”

The finger on his chest fell limp at her side. She laughed, but the sound didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m not.”

Hawke sunk down by the altar, leaning back against Andraste. Her gaze searched for something in the ceiling beams, looking everywhere but Cullen.

“Beth was, though.”

There was that iron grip in his chest again. Now, his conscience screamed. Do it now!

“Hawke, I’m-“

He should've known better. It wouldn't be so easy.

“Aenor’s quite a woman, isn’t she? I’m leaving with her for Crestwood tomorrow.”

As if he’d said nothing at all. Cullen cleared his throat. “Yes, she is.”

“Proud to serve with her?”

Why were all of her questions traps?

“I am. Inquisitor Lavellan is a great woman.”

“No. Better. She’s a _good_ woman.” Her gaze snapped back up to his. “The Inquisitor the world needs.”

Cullen sat down beside her. “She admires you, you know.”

“Why the fuck would she?” Just like that, Hawke’s hackles rose and her anger bore into him like a hot poker.

“You’re a hero, Hawke,” Cullen rasped.

“A hero?” The Champion snarled like a mountain cat, leaping up from her spot. “I couldn’t save Beth. Or Kirkwall. It’s hell. All thanks to me and my inability to recognize a fucking lunatic in my own-”

“I’m sorry, Lillian.” The rushed words didn't register.

She scowled. “Sorry? What-”

"I'm sorry for everything that happened and the part I played in it," Cullen cut in. Her eyes widened- why, he could not say, because he pressed forward without staring too deeply. It might stop him if he did. "It was beneath me. I'm trying not to do so here." The words spilled out of his mouth in a cascade of remorse, bubbling up from deep in his twisted gut. He yearned to look away from Hawke's face, but some terrible force kept him glued to her. "I was... complicit in Meredith's methods. I turned a blind eye. I had my reasons for doing what I did, but that did not justify treating mages with suspicion without cause."

He set his jaw, bracing for the explosion of a woman who'd lost everything. 

Hawke only stared at him, her features as expressionless and still as an Orlesian mask.

Cullen swallowed, biting back the urge to beg her to say something.

The silence filled the space so completely that he felt as though the Chantry might burst. He repeated the words in his head, wondering if something he'd said was wrong. She gave him no reassurances, fixing him with a hollow gaze. 

"Why are you here, Rutherford?"

He'd feared her hostility, only to find her curiosity was far worse.

"To a-"

"No. Why are you _here_ , Rutherford?"

"I come here to..." He glanced at Andraste. "Find some measure of peace."

"The nightmares."

Cullen cleared his throat. "Yes."

"What were they tonight?"

"Nothing of import. You shouldn't be troubled with it."

Hawke chuckled darkly. "Here we sit in the dead of night, huddled in this dank little Chantry talking about our trauma. Might as well go all the way. Uldred's abominations?"

"No."

“Warden-Commander Surana, perhaps?"

" _Hawke_."

"A guessing game, then? Well, I do have all night and a rather extensive-"

" _Meredith_." The whispered name darkened the little Chantry. The Champion clenched her jaw, and Cullen suppressed a shudder.

"Meredith." A telltale vein pulsed in Hawke's forehead, but she still managed a nasty grin. "I see. How is that statue, by the way? A charming addition to the Ga-"

"Andraste preserve me!" Cullen snapped, stepping closer to tower over her. "Enough, Hawke. I dreamt about the Gallows that night. The carnage of it all. You. Your sister-"

The smirk slid off her face at the mention of Bethany. Her golden head, earlier held high with pride, now bowed. "And now you come to seek my forgiveness."

"Yes."

The stony Andraste's gaze burned his face.

"You think that if I say the words, all will be well." It wasn't a question. She stated it as a matter of fact. The sky was blue. Elves had pointy ears. All would be well if Hawke said the words.

He searched for an answer in her face but found only pity. "Oh, Cullen." She gripped his shoulder. "I can't forgive you for what you did to those mages."

He shook his head, desperate to rectify her misunderstanding. "I seek your forgiveness for only what I've wronged you-"

"No. Don't you understand?" Raw pain cracked her voice, stripping away what little remained of her bluster. "It's not about a single person forgiving you. It's about you- just you. You learning to live with what you've done."

Was this woman Hawke? Cullen grasped for some distant recollection of the creature before him. What was she? A champion of her city.  Some untouchable spirit of war perhaps. Fire and blood made flesh, armed with that terrible ax and an indomitable spirit.

Or so he'd thought.

Perhaps they were not so very different, she and him.

"I've been living with it for ten years," Cullen murmured. "I want to do more than live with my worst impulses. I want to atone. I want to be a better man. And that starts here. With the Inquisition. With you."

Hawke opened her mouth, but Cullen cut her off. "For Bethany. And for Kirkwall. I'm sorry."

He caught the faintest sheen in her eyes before she jerked her head towards Andraste. "You don't need me, Cullen. You're already on the road. Look at the Inquisition."

"She would've been proud."

"You really think so?" Hawke whispered, her voice scarcely audible.

If someone had told him a few hours ago that the Champion of Kirkwall would seek reassurance from him, he would’ve laughed.

"You stood with her. To the very end. And now you stand with us.”

She couldn’t muster a response to that, and Cullen didn’t force one from her. They stood together, not a word breathed into the chilly air, for what felt like hours. The darkness gradually receded, not entirely removed by their confessions or apologies, but it hurt just a bit less. At that moment, in the Chantry in Skyhold's garden, they existed as two lost souls- not as Champion or Commander.

“She would’ve been shocked to see _you.”_

A wave of relief washed over Cullen. At least some of her humor had returned.

“Commanding a force that supports free mages? I should think so.”

She chuckled, starting towards the door. “Not an unpleasant shock. But a shock nonetheless.”

Hawke reached out and squeezed his shoulder. He managed a smile.

Maker’s breath. What world were they living in?

“You and me? We’re okay. Still a ways to go. But we’re okay.” She eyed the scar on his lip. “You still deserved that punch though.”

“I’ll return the favor if you spar with me.”

She laughed again, and Cullen never thought he’d be so happy to hear it. "I wanted to hate you. I came to Skyhold expecting to find the Knight Captain."

He arched a brow. "Who did you meet instead?"

"Cullen Rutherford." A wry little smile curled her lips. "He isn't half bad."

 

 

 

 


End file.
